


Shore Leave

by Morgan (morgan32)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, PWP, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-22
Updated: 2009-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By day she's a college student with a freaky knife collection. By night, she's a hunter. Not a very good one, yet, but still...she's a hunter. And she doesn't appreciate someone else muscling in on her case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shore Leave

**Author's Note:**

> Yet more evidence that I'm incapable of writing plot-free fic, even when it's just porn. Which this was meant to be. No, really. When I killed Jo so horribly in _Never Say Die_ I sort of promised her I'd write a story where she'd get to have fun (and wouldn't die). This is it.

Jo walked down to the edge of the lake, the heels of her boots sinking into the soft grass with each step. She wondered what her friends would say if they knew where she was, or why. They already thought she was a freak. If they knew she almost drowned here last night, and was back to try again, they'd think she was nuts.

Maybe she was.

Jo's long hair was held back in a metal clasp and mostly concealed beneath a black knitted hat. She wore dark blue jeans and a tight sweater under a bulky black jacket. The jacket concealed two knives, but Jo didn't have a gun. She could get away with knives at college, but a gun would get her kicked out for sure. Besides, a gun wouldn't be much use against what she was going to face tonight. The backpack slung over her shoulder held the tools she really needed: matches, gasoline and salt. She carried a shovel in her left hand.

No mistakes this time. She would find the body tonight before anyone else died.

Jo reached the boathouse and shone her flashlight onto the chain. The night before she'd needed to pick the padlock, but tonight the chain was loose, the door unlocked. That was a lucky break. She slipped inside, sweeping the dark boathouse with the flashlight. One of the boats was missing. Combined with the open door, that was weird, but Jo dismissed the thought that there might be someone else on the lake. She would have seen a boat out there on her way down. Jo untied one of the boats, laid her shovel in the bottom, climbed in and pushed off. A few moments later, she was out on the open lake.

When Jo first read about the drownings, she thought investigating would simply be good practice for when she started hunting for real. She hadn't expected to find anything supernatural. The lake was a popular suicide spot. Jo used the college library to look up the history of the area. She pretended to be a pre-med student and talked to the M.E. who did the autopsies on two of the recent suicides. She talked to other students, claiming to be writing an article about the drownings. The more she learned, the less it seemed like suicide. She started reading the history of the lake itself, compiling a list of deaths that happened in or near it. What she found made her certain she was dealing with a spirit, a ghost. Nearly a hundred years before, two girls drowned in the lake. Their father was convicted of murder, but killed himself before they got around to hanging him for the crime. He was buried, along with his daughters, in the family plot...which just happened to be on the island in the middle of the lake.

To Jo, it seemed obvious that daddy-dearest was still around, drowning folks in some bizzare re-enactment of the way he killed his daughters. Any hunter would have made the same mistake, she was sure. After all, the story was all there in black and white.

So, last night, Jo rowed herself over to the family plot, dug up the father's grave and salted-and-burned what was left of him. Easy as pie. Except when she was done, she found her row boat missing, even though she was sure she'd tied it firmly to the old jetty. Jo figured the ghost was history but she was not anxious to spend the night on the island and have to explain what she was doing there to whoever found her in the morning. She was a strong swimmer and the shore really wasn't that far away. The thought was not appealing, but in the end she decided to go for it.

Big mistake.

The water was icy-cold and Jo's clothing dragged her down, making it hard to stay afloat and her progress toward the shore slower than she'd expected. When the first tug dragged her under the water, Jo thought she'd caught herself on something. She didn't panic. She flipped open her knife even as she fought her way back to the surface. She took a deep breath and ducked under, searching for the snag.

It wasn't a snag. She felt it clearly the second time: cold hands around her leg, just below her knee. The hands jerked her down under the water. She swallowed half the lake and struggled for the surface. Panic took hold as she felt herself sinking deeper and a stream of bubbles, the last of her breath, rose from her mouth and nose as she tried to scream for help.

Jo broke the surface just in time. She sucked freezing air into her lungs. The spirit dragged her under again but with a fresh lungful of air Jo was thinking more clearly. She twisted in the water and tore open her backpack. She felt in it for the salt, praying she had enough left. She opened the bag and salt spilled out into the water. Jo got one good look at the spirit before it vanished. It was female.

So she'd opened the wrong grave. Jo's imagination supplied several explanations for the mistake. The most likely explanation was that one sister had drowned the other and daddy took the fall. But it didn't matter what really happened so long ago. Jo had no way to know which sister's spirit was haunting the lake, so she would just have to salt and burn both of them. She would make no more mistakes.

Jo rowed past the jetty and dragged her boat all the way up onto the shore and tied it to a tree. She checked her backpack one last time and headed toward the small family cemetery. She pushed her way through the shrubbery, intent on the task ahead.

A man whirled to face her. Jo heard the sound of a shotgun being cocked and froze in her tracks. She took in the scene quickly. All Jo could see of the man was his silhouette. A flashlight lay on the grass behind him. In its light, Jo made out a shovel and a canister of gasoline. She could add two and two well enough: this man's purpose was the same as her own.

Knowing she was facing a hunter, not some maniac with a gun, gave Jo confidence. She'd grown up around hunters; they didn't intimidate her. She strode forward, ignoring his shotgun.

"Who the hell are you?" Jo demanded. Damn it, she still couldn't see his face.

"I'm the one holding the gun," he growled, raising the weapon a little.

His voice was vaguely familiar and Jo wondered if he'd wandered through the Roadhouse at some point. He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a heavy coat. Without seeing his face, she couldn't guess his age.

"Yeah?" Jo sassed right back. "Well, you're digging up the wrong grave, dumbass." He must have seen the freshly turned earth. He must know someone had opened that grave recently.

"Oh, really?" he answered, and now Jo could hear the smile in his voice. "So you're the one who got here first?"

Jo didn't like that he was still aiming a shotgun her way. She took another step toward him, pretending to ignore the gun while never taking her eyes off it. "I'm not here for the beautiful view," she snapped. "It's not the father."

"Then why'd you dig him up?"

_For the same reason you are, jerk._ Jo shook her head. "You know what? Fuck you. This is _my_ hunt." She raised her shovel and headed toward the first of the graves she planned to open. "I'm gonna finish it."

He chuckled. "Alright, sweetheart. Don't get your panties in a knot." He lowered the shotgun. "You and I followed the same trail here. Did you salt and burn this one?" He half-turned as he gestured toward the father's grave and Jo caught sight of his profile for a second.

"I'm not your sweetheart. And, yeah, of course I did. But I got a good look at the spirit after. It's not a man."

He nodded, actually paying attention to her now. "Okay. Do you know who it is?"

Jo wanted to say yes, she did. She really wanted to show this arrogant jerk that she knew what she was doing. But she couldn't. She had two graves to dig and she could use the help. So she answered honestly. "It has to be one of two. I was going to burn them both."

The man nodded again. "Good plan," he said, and Jo was both warmed and irritated by the note of approval in his voice. "Let's take one each, then," he suggested. Unless you don't want help. After all, it's _your_ hunt."

Sarcasm and courtesy all rolled up into one. Jo rolled her eyes. "Sure." She pointed with her flashlight. "You can have that one."

***

It probably wasn't dangerous. A salt-and-burn was usually straightforward, the greatest danger being the chance of getting caught digging up a grave. Even so, John had known a couple of them to go south and he didn't want to leave this kid alone and read about her death in the next edition of the local news. She seemed to know what she was doing, but he would bet she wasn't old enough to drink. What was a girl her age doing hunting?

John did come here to finish a ghost, so he dug the grave the girl indicated. It was amusing, the way she fired orders at him and expected him to obey. The ground on the island was soft from the recent rains, and it didn't take long for John to reach the coffin. He busted the rotten wood open with the edge of his shovel and scattered everything with salt. He hauled himself out of the open grave and checked on the girl. She was still digging, slower than he.

The sharp scent of gasoline filled the air around them as John poured it liberally into the grave, then tossed in a couple of matches. The flames went up with a brief hiss and spark.

A familiar scent came to John then; not gasoline or the fire below. Ozone. He grabbed for his shotgun and turned to the other open grave where the girl was digging.

She was standing quite still, the shovel in her hand leaning on the exposed wood of the coffin. As John watched she flung out a hand, grabbing the muddy wall beside her. Her eyes went wide with fear and she choked.

John fired into the grave, missing her by inches. The spirit had been invisible, but the rock salt created a brief glow as it touched the ghost. It was enough to let John correct his aim and he fired again. The air gleamed briefly and the ghost vanished.

The girl was on her knees on the coffin, water spilling from her mouth. She drew in a rasping breath and coughed.

John crouched down and offered her his hand to help her out of there.

She looked up, saw him, and waved him away. "I'm okay," she said hoarsely.

_Bullshit_. John had little patience with that attitude. In the middle of a hunt is not the time for pretence. John answered her as he would his boys, barking the order impatiently. "Then get that box open before the spirit comes back!"

She used the shovel to haul herself back upright, then continued work without saying another word. John tossed her the salt, and this time she accepted his help to climb out of the grave before he poured in the gasoline. She stood at the edge of the hole, her breathing still hoarse, gazing down at the burning remains.

"Are you okay?" he asked her.

She gave him a look as if he should have known the answer. "Why did your gun drive it off?" she asked.

John dug into his pocket for his spare ammo. He cracked open the shotgun and showed it to her as he reloaded. "Rock salt," he explained. "Doesn't do much damage if you hit a person, but spirits really don't like it."

She smiled, despite herself. "Salt. I didn't know you could do that." She appeared impressed.

John nodded. "What's your name, kid?"

"I'm not a kid!" she flared. "My name's Jo."

"You're a bit young to be hunting." Even as he spoke, John was conscious that both of his boys were younger than she when they began hunting. But he hadn't meant she was too young to do the job, though her expression said that's what she'd taken as his meaning. Most people got into hunting after some tragedy. Few people her age knew enough about what was out there to even identify a spirit, let alone decide to hunt it.

"Did you put this together on your own?" John asked. He intended it as an olive branch.

She answered defensively, "It wasn't hard."

"Alright. I get the message." John started to fill in the first grave. He was conscious of her watching him work while she shovelled dirt into the other grave. He wondered who had taught her to hunt and why her teacher wasn't with her now.

They completed the job in silence and walked down to the jetty together. The row boat John had stolen to get across to the island was gone.

The girl gave him an I-told-you-so smile. "The spirit did that to me, too. My boat should be okay."

John shook his head, but since his only alternative was to start swimming, he shrugged and followed her. Her boat was where she had left it, leading John to conclude that the spirit was mostly confined to the water. He took the oars without waiting for her to ask and rowed them quickly across to the boathouse. There, he waited for her to tie the boat up before climbing out.

All in all, it had been a good evening. The hunt was successful. He could get a good night's sleep and call Dean in the morning to arrange their rendezvous.

Jo glanced his way as they left the boathouse. "Thanks for your help," she said.

He could hear the effort she put in to making that sound casual. "Thanks for _yours_," John answered sincerely. "You saved me a lot of extra digging. Do you need a ride home?"

She shrugged, pulling off her snug hat to reveal shining blonde hair. "I walked here. It's not far."

"You live nearby?" John asked, then realised where she must live. "Oh, the college. Right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, come on. I'll give you a ride. Unless you want to walk through the campus looking like you've been digging a grave."

She looked down at her muddy clothing and pulled a face. "Damn. I wasn't planning on going straight home." She looked up and gave him a sassy smile. "Unless you wanna come home with me?"

John hadn't had an offer like that in a while. He hesitated. "Uh, Jo, that's..."

"Let me put it another way," she said with a display of impatience that reminded him of Dean. "I'm gonna get laid tonight. I'd like you to be part of that. If you're not interested, then either forget the ride or drive me to Elysium. Those guys like a little dirt."

John knew the bar she meant and it was a dive. She'd get laid alright - over a barrel out back. He looked at the girl. The truth was he could use what she was offering, and she obviously knew hunters: she wouldn't expect more than a one-night stand. But she looked barely twenty. Younger than Sammy, for god's sake. Then again, it was hard to think of someone as a kid when he'd watched her dig up a grave, cool and professional as any experienced hunter.

John nodded. "Just tonight," he said, to be sure they were on the same page. "That's what you want?"

"Totally."

"Okay then. Let's go."

***

John moved closer to Jo's body as she unlocked her room. He slid his hands around her tiny waist, bending to breathe in the scent of her hair and skin. He was uncomfortably aware that he hadn't even told her his name. But she hadn't asked, nor told him more than her first name. She wanted some kind of fantasy one-night stand with a stranger; John was fine with that. The anonymity suited him and she was what he usually picked for casual sex: delicate features and long, blonde hair like his Mary. John had no illusions, but he could have his fantasy, just for the moment it mattered.

The door swung open and Jo led him inside. He saw a room with twin beds, carefully divided between two quite different personalities. It was easy to see which side of the room was Jo's: she had locks on her closet and drawers.

"Are we going to be alone all night?" John asked, wary of being caught _in flagrante_ with a girl his son's age.

Jo stripped off her bulky jacket and laid it over a chair. "It's Friday. She won't be back." She locked the door anyway.

Good enough. John removed his own coat and closed the distance between them in two strides. He took her face between his hands and kissed her deeply, parting her lips with his tongue. Jo moved into his body, returning his kiss. What she lacked in technique she made up for in enthusiasm, meeting his tongue with hers as he tasted her. He ran his hands through her long hair, enjoying the silken feel of it in his fingers. It was a long time since he'd had this. John was already hard. Her body was warm against his. He balled his fists in her hair, fighting for control. He wanted to throw her down and take her, just fuck her, with no foreplay or finesse.

When he broke the kiss Jo stared up at him, her eyes wide, a little afraid.

John stroked her hair gently. "Are you sure about this, girl? I'm not the college boys you're used to."

She made a disgusted sound. "Who wants college boys? They have dicks the size of pencils and think kinky or adventurous means using a coloured condom."

John laughed. "Well, if you put it like that..."

"If you can find my clit without a flashlight and written directions, you can have anything you want tonight." She reached for his belt with a smile.

John took her at her word. He allowed her to undo his belt. With his hands on her waist he pushed her backward, moving with her until her ass hit the desk. John lifted her up, sitting her on the desk. He pulled the t-shirt out of her pants and slowly rolled it upward, exposing the creamy skin of her stomach, her black bra. Jo raised her arms to help him take the t-shirt off her. He dropped it on the floor and ran his hands down her bare arms. Her skin was smooth and warm. Jo's bra was edged with delicate lace. John cupped her breasts in his hands and bent to kiss her neck. He bent lower and mouthed the tops of her breasts, tasting the salt of her skin. He reached for her belt, undoing the buckle as he sucked her nipple through the fabric of her bra.

Jo undid the bra and it fell away as John unzipped her jeans and plunged his hand inside. He sucked her now-bare nipple into his mouth. He worked his fingers inside her panties and inside her body. She was hot for him, wet and ready and John no longer cared that she was just a kid. He raised his head, her breast shiny with his saliva. With his free hand he grasped a handful of her hair and pulled her into a kiss. He knew he'd found her clit when she reacted sharply, moaning into the kiss, arching her back.

"Oh, god! Oh, god!" Jo moaned, the words muffled by John's mouth on hers. She was coming already; he'd barely had to work for it. She thrust into his hand, clinging to him as she climaxed, crying out wordlessly. John held her close while she recovered. Her breath was hot on his neck.

John slid his hands underneath her and lifted her down from the desk. He spoke quietly, against her ear. "See? No need for directions."

Jo giggled and looked up at him. Her cheeks were flushed from her orgasm, her eyes bright and eager. She rubbed the front of his jeans, feeling the shape of his hard cock. "There. That's a _man's_ dick. You as good with this as you are with your hand?"

He pulled her hand off his cock. He was hard and very ready; her touch wasn't  helping his control. "You said _anything_ I want," John reminded her. He wouldn't take advantage...well, not _too_ much.

She grinned up at him. "That I did," she agreed.

"Turn around," John ordered.

She obeyed, turning her back on him and he yanked her pants down, and his own. John paused only long enough to roll on a condom and then he bent her over the desk and shoved two fingers into her. She was wet and open, ready for him. He fucked her with his fingers and then, as he replaced his fingers with his cock and thrust deep, he reached around to touch her face, rubbing her wetness off his fingers onto her own lips. She opened her mouth to suck on his fingers and he thrust again, hard and brutal. Jo cried out and grabbed for the edges of the desk she lay on. She grasped the edge, white knuckled, with one hand but the other flailed over the surface of the wood, sending books and pens and CDs flying. John grabbed her wrist and drew her arm in against her side. He pinned her down as he fucked her. She was pressed face-down on the desk, her pale buttocks bouncing each time he thrust.

John leaned over her and kissed the back of her neck. Her skin tasted of sweat. She turned her head, seeking his mouth with hers. John kissed her and said into her ear. "Big enough for you?"

"Oh, god, yes!" She writhed beneath him, her breath coming in little moaning pants. It was a little overdone. She just came in John's arms and that was real.

John slapped her ass lightly. "Don't fake it, sweetheart. Just enjoy the ride." He squeezed her buttock and ran his hand over her hip, tracing the shape of the bone. He thrust inside her. She was so hot inside, so tight...he wouldn't last much longer. He felt between her legs, his fingers sliding in her wetness and this time her moan of pleasure was real. John smiled fiercely and let go, fucking her hard as the orgasm carried him and he bit his lip to keep from crying the wrong name.

***

Jo sighed contentedly and pressed her nude body against John's side. Her bed wasn't very big: close was the only way they could both fit. She explored his chest with her free hand, her fingers finding old scars and recent ones. She wondered how many women before her had explored this battered body. As her fingers found each blemish, she tried to guess what caused them: a knife wound in his side, the scar beneath his left nipple so jagged it had to be something with teeth, a bullet wound in his shoulder. She circled the bullet wound with her tongue and John laughed, enveloping her hand with his much larger one and holding it to his chest.

"You'll have to give me a little longer, darlin'."

Jo couldn't resist glancing down to his groin. Even spent, his cock was thick and heavy. She was tempted to get down there and take him in her mouth, see if she couldn't prove him wrong. She smiled, sliding her hand from under his and down across his stomach. She found the ridge of another scar, this one a finger's-width above the thick hair at his groin. She traced the length of the scar.

He drew her hand away. "Yeah, that one almost had my balls."

"I'll say," Jo agreed, both impressed and scared by how much he had survived. "What happened?"

"You really want to trade hunting stories?" He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckes, sucked one finger into his mouth.

Jo shivered at his caress. "Well," she admitted with a smile, "I only have two and you were there for the second one. But I _would_ like to know."

"I was hunting a poltergeist in - " he broke off suddenly. "That's my phone." John rolled off the bed, reaching for the coat he'd discarded earlier. Jo watched him pull out a cell phone and glance at the display. "Shit!" he muttered and punched the button to answer the call. "Dean," he said. No _hello_. Not even _Why are you calling me at 3.30 in the morning?_ Just the guy's name.

John stood as he listened. He was completely nude, but he seemed not to notice. It was as if Jo wasn't even there, he was so utterly focussed on the call. "Dean, slow down. Rock salt." There was a pause, and then John said, "Then it's not a spirit. Did you try - " he stopped as if interrupted. "Well, that narrows it down. Forget the shotgun. Here's your chance to try out that flamethrower." Another pause. "Do you need help?...Alright. Call me when it's done." He hung up without saying goodbye. "Damn it!"

Jo pushed the comforter aside and sat on the edge of the bed. "Is someone in trouble?"

John looked up at if he'd forgotten Jo was there. "Dean's always in some kind of trouble," he growled, but it was a joke that didn't quite come off.

Jo wasn't fooled. This person, Dean, had called at a time when he must have expected John to be sleeping. That meant the call must have been urgent.

John was searching around for his underpants. "Sorry, sweetheart. I'm gonna have to cut our fun short."

Jo nodded, hugging the comforter close to her. "Where is he? Can you get there in time?"

He found his underpants and was halfway into his jeans. "Dean's in Texas. Whatever's happening will be done when I get there." He zipped his pants and started buckling his belt. "He's my son. I'm gonna go anyway."

"Sure. I mean, I understand. But...well, if it's so far, maybe you should wait until he calls." John's expression made her hesitate but Jo pressed on. "Don't look at me like that. You haven't slept tonight, and now you're gonna hit the road? You should at least have coffee first. Or breakfast."

John frowned and Jo thought he was going to say something she wouldn't like. Instead he just shrugged. "Okay. Get dressed."

***

John paid for two breakfasts and joined Jo at the table she had chosen. The all-night diner was typical of its kind: tall stools along the counter and a row of semi-private booths along the window. Jo had picked out a booth and was sitting with her back to the door. John wondered if she'd intentionally left the best view to him or if she just didn't think about it.

Delaying his journey like this was stressing him out, but the girl did talk sense. He was too far from Dean to make a difference. He would eat, drink plenty of caffeine and with any luck Dean would call back before John left. If Dean did call, John would know how urgently he needed to get to Texas. If Dean didn't call...but he would.

The waitress brought their food and coffee, then left them to it. John drank his coffee and watched Jo lay into her short-stack as if she were starving.

"How did you get into all this?" he asked her.

Jo looked up. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

It was fair, John thought. "Something killed my wife," he told her bluntly. Nothing more.

Jo put her fork down. "My dad was a hunter. He died when I was little, but I grew up around hunters. I guess you could say it's the family business."

John wanted to tell her to live a little, to enjoy being young before embarking on a career that could only end in death...or worse. But the words felt sour in his mouth. It was advice he should have given to Dean.

Instead, he asked, "Who's your dad?"

She glanced down at her plate and in that instant of evasion John knew he didn't want to hear her answer.

"William Harvelle," she said softly.

John set down his coffee and stared at her. "You're Bill Harvelle's kid?"

"Yes."

_Oh, my god._ Suddenly their casual one-night stand made him feel like a pedophile. He remembered her as a little kid. He remembered Bill and Ellen and the Roadhouse. Jesus. Ellen would castrate him with a rusty spoon if she knew he'd been with her baby girl.

John swallowed. "How's your mom?" he asked, hoping it sounded casual.

Jo grinned. "She's...she's fine. Just like always."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

To her credit, Jo didn't pretend to misunderstand. "If I had told you who my parents are, you wouldn't have come home with me."

"Damn straight I wouldn't!"

Jo met his eyes, pushing her plate away. "Look, I'm not a baby. You _wanted_ anonymous sex. So did I. So what's changed?"

John narrowed his eyes. "You know who I am, don't you?"

She nodded. "John Winchester. I remember you."

"Then that wasn't very anonymous, was it?" John was pissed and didn't try to hide it. It wasn't about the sex. The sex was good and he'd known she was college age when he went to her room. He had no right to feel used because of that. It was the lie that he didn't like.

Jo's sassy grin faded. "You're right. I'm sorry." Then she smiled again. "But don't pretend you're not glad I lied. I had a good time tonight. Well, except for the nearly drowning part."

"Does Ellen know you're hunting?" John asked.

Jo shrugged. "She knows I'm gonna. I didn't tell her about this hunt and I'm not planning to."

John reached into his coat for a pen and scrawled his cell phone number on one of the diner's paper napkins. He pushed it across the table. "That's my cell. If you're going to hunt, you're gonna run into things you can't handle. When that happens, give me a call before you get yourself killed."

"Gee, that's flattering," she answered sarcastically.

That she would take offence at that proved her inexperience, John thought. "Hunting's like any skill. It takes time to get good at it, Jo. You did good out there tonight. You were prepared, you knew what you were doing and it wasn't your fault things went a little wrong. You did good."

"Thanks," she said grudgingly.

"But if you try to run before you can walk, you're dead. Don't be too proud to ask for help, Jo. Take the number."

Jo nodded, accepting the napkin. "Okay."

John finished his coffee and started to eat. They ate in silence until John's cell rang. He answered it immediately. "Dean?"

"Relax, Dad. The flamethrower worked like a charm."

John felt his tension ease at once. "Good. Sure it was just the one?"

"Pretty sure. I only saw one."

John frowned. "Make certain. You can do a sweep in daylight to double check."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going to hit the road. Call me if you find anything. Otherwise, I'll meet you at Caleb's place."

He could almost hear Dean smiling. "Got it. See you there."

John ended the call. They never said goodbye on the phone...just in case it was. John pocketed the phone. "I have to go," he said to Jo.

"I figured." She picked up her coat from beside her.

Outside the diner, John hesitated at the truck. He was anxious to get on the road in case Dean needed help. "Do you need a ride home?" he asked.

Jo shrugged. "It's fine. I can walk from here."

John moved toward her, lifted her chin and kissed her. The kiss was gentle and he parted her lips, tasting coffee on her tongue. She made a small sound as he drew away. "It was a great night," he told her.

Jo grinned. "Yeah. It was. Good hunting, John."

John nodded and opened the truck door.

***

**Six Months Later**

For the first time, Jo understood what John Winchester meant when he told her he might run into things that were more than she could handle. Ghosts, Jo could handle. Werewolves...well, that one scared her, but she'd done it. Demonic possession...that was out of her league. Jo knew when she was outclassed.

She opened her case of knives and lifted them out one at a time. At the bottom of the case lay the folded napkin with John's number written on it. Jo picked it up, remembering.

Maybe it had been dumb to sleep with him. But, god, it had been a good night. If she called him now...well, who knew? It sure would be fun.

Jo had butterflies in her stomach just thinking about him.

She unfolded the napkin and dialled John's number.

She heard, _This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean. He can help._

She turned her phone off and sat back, her heart thumping. Should she call Dean, as the message said?

In the end, she called Ash instead.

**~ End ~**


End file.
